


Thank Goodness for Busybodies

by sherlockian4evr



Series: Getting It Together [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Bottom!Sherlock, Embarrassment, First Time, Fluff, It's about time!, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male Slash, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Orgasm, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Porn, Sherlock Loves John, Tickling, Ticklish Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson has decided that enough is enough. She has hinted, suggested, dropped innuendo after innuendo, but her two tenants are impossibly stubborn. Well, that is about to end.</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mrs. Hudson has decided that enough is enough. She has hinted, suggested, dropped innuendo after innuendo, but her two tenants are impossibly stubborn. Well, that is about to end. She knows John's schedule at the clinic just as well as a certain consulting detective does. He should be arriving at any minute and she will be waiting for him. She steps into the foyer and starts dusting rather haphazardly. The door pops open and Mrs. Hudson turns. John is just on time. Mrs. Hudson gives him a smile and gathers her dusting cloth and polish. "John, dear. I need to talk to you."

John's shoulders sag. He is really very tired after the day he's had. He forces a smile onto his face, though. Mrs. Hudson is always kind and thoughtful, even when she shouldn't be, and she puts up with so much more from Sherlock than she should ever be expected to. For that, John will always treat her with respect. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. What's he done now?"

Mrs. Hudson titters. She's the only person that John knows that actually does that. "Oh, that boy. He's been so bored without you here. He doesn't have a case on, you know." She leans towards John and whispers confidentiality, "And that brother of his was here."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John groans. "Mrs. Hudson, I hate to ask..." He glances up the stairs with no little trepidation before continuing, "but do you have any idea..."

Patting him on the cheek just like she so often does to Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson moves towards her door. "There was a bit of yelling on Sherlock's part," she admits, her free hand smoothing through her hair. "Something about goldfish and he called his brother," here, she lowers her voice, "a 'meddling, arrogant prat'."

"Oh, God," John murmurs.

"I know, dear. He hasn't been gone very long, so Sherlock's probably in a right strop." Mrs. Hudson gives him a sympathetic look. "Join me for a cuppa? Give Himself time to settle a bit?"

John looks up the stairs again. He really isn't in the mood to deal with three year old Sherlock. John loves living with Sherlock, most of the time. It's fun, exciting and he can't image anything else that would be so satisfying. But. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." A loud crash comes from upstairs and they both jump. "Might be best."

A few minutes and some idle chatter later and Mrs. Hudson sits and places two cups of tea on the table between them. There's a plateful of biscuits in easy reach as well. "Now, then, John, about what I wanted to discuss." They both take a sip of their tea and John grabs a biscuit. "I have had just about enough of your persistent denials and outright deception."

John pauses, the biscuit more than halfway to his mouth. He blinks. 'What the fuck?' he thinks. Out loud, he says, "Pardon?"

"You, John Watson, are not gay. You are bisexual." She reminds him of his mother, right then. She's giving him that look. The one that says "I have your number. Deny it, spit and sputter, go right ahead and make your grand declarations, but don't expect me to believe a word of it." It's just wrong hearing her use those words so plainly. John's ears turn red from embarrassment. Mrs. Hudson isn't your conventional busybody. She's not just a meddlesome old lady that pops in to clean and snoop and gather gossip fodder, either. The woman had been married to the leader of a drug cartel! Not to mention the whole stripper thing. John knows all of this, intellectually, but he hasn't managed to internalise it. He probably never will. John sputters and looks anywhere but at his landlady.

"So why? Really. Why haven't you told Sherlock how you feel?" Mrs. Hudson's eyes and voice are soft. She obviously means well. She cares about the both of them. That's probably the only reason John doesn't get up and stalk out of the flat. That, and the fact that John has been hiding his feelings for Sherlock for so long and it has taken its inevitable toll.

John lets out an explosive breath, carefully places his tea on the table, places the biscuit next to it and unceremoniously plants his head on the tabletop. "Oh, bloody hell," he moans. A heartbeat passes then he mutters, "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

"It's okay, dear," she replies to his muffled apology. "Now, as soon as you get over your embarrassment, young man, I expect an explanation." Mrs. Hudson reaches across the small table and gives his shoulder a pat.

John has faced down death innumerable times. He's killed when it was "kill or be killed" and he's done it once when it wasn't. Hell, he's eaten leftovers that were stored next to a severed head. How many blokes can say they've done that? Just don't ask him to talk about sex and feelings and look his landlady in the eye at the same. That's asking him to go one step too far. John shakes his head and it rolls back and forth on the tabletop. His nose is squashed and that doesn't help Mrs. Hudson understand him a bit when he begins to talk. "He's 'married to his work."

"Poppycock," Mrs. Hudson exclaims. "What idiot told you that."

John tips his head a bit, rolls up his eyes and peeks at her. He wonders if she is really that oblivious. Even if Sherlock hadn't said it, and he had, Sherlock makes it obvious with his every action. The man hasn't gone on a date since John has moved in with him. Not with a woman. Not with a man. Sherlock just doesn't do that. Mrs. Hudson is waiting for a reply. As with his mother, John knows that it's best to give her one and get it over with. "He did."

Now it's Mrs. Hudson's turn to place her cup on the table. She does it, ever so gently. "That boy! I'm of half a mind to have words with him." She's on her feet, now, and moving across the kitchen.

John leaps up and steps between her and the door. "No. No. No. ThankYouVeryMuch," he rushes, "but no."

"But, John. I am so vexed with the boy. Honestly!" Mrs. Hudson crosses her arms and huffs. Then, in an amazing imitation of John's mother, she's absolutely channelling her, Mrs. Hudson shouts, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes! You get down here this minute!"

It's muffled, but they hear Sherlock bellow his reply, "I'm busy, Mrs. Hudson! The eyeballs won't keep."

Both Mrs. Hudson and John know that there are no eyeballs in the upstairs flat. They were thrown out last night and Sherlock hasn't managed to drag himself to Bart's. Mycroft certainly didn't deliver any. So. "Don't lie to me, young man! Get yourself down here before I count to three or there will be consequences." Her voice is surprisingly loud and ringing.

There's a rush of footfalls on the stairs. The clatter stops as Sherlock pauses to gather his dignity about him like a cloak. He opens Mrs. Hudson's door and steps in. Sherlock wants to appear unflappable and dignified. He looks like a child about to receive a scolding. "It wasn't the walls or the furniture, Mrs. Hudson, I assure you. I was just..."

"It's not about that, dear," Mrs. Hudson assures him. "What's this nonsense about being married to your work?"

If possible, Sherlock looks even more guilty and a touch afraid. He glances at John who looks like the shocky victim of a bombing which is ironic since John is actively wishing ...praying... for a nice bomb right about now. John would settle for a creepy psychopath or even a CIA thug. Hell, Mycroft returning because he forgot his umbrella would be welcome. John's not particular. 

Sherlock starts to whirl away, but faster than he thought possible, Mrs. Hudson snatches him by the ear. He could get away, but he'd have to use force and that's one thing he will never do, not with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock drops his voice to a whisper. "Mrs. Hudson," he snaps, then softens his tone, "Please." She's already shaking her head and he knows it's futile. "I didn't know him at the time!" Sherlock cringes at the whine in his own voice and looks down. Well, he tries to. Mrs. Hudson is still holding his ear.

"You will explain to John just what a load of bollocks that 'married to my work' business is." Mrs. Hudson found out long ago that the judicious use of expletives can be very effective. No one expects it from a lady her age. It works just as well on her favourite genius as it does on everyone else. 

Sherlock cringes before he replies, "She's correct, John." What that really means, John doesn't know.

"Tell him the rest, dear," she orders. Sherlock hesitates just a fraction of a second too long. "If you don't, I'll call your mother.

Going pale, well, even more pale, Sherlock swallows. He works his mouth a few times. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. He swallows again. "I... lkjn."

"What was that, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

John's heart starts racing. Correction. It's been racing for a while. Now it almost leaps out of his chest.

"You heard me," Sherlock snarls. Mrs. Hudson gives him a warning look. "Oh, very well, but don't blame me when the rent is short next month." John's going to move out. There's no question about that. "I said that I like John." He pauses, then adds, "Maybe more than like. Maybe."

Mrs. Hudson releases her hold on his ear and straightens an errant curl before turning to John. "Your turn, dear," she says calmly.

John thinks she's far too at ease for this. He clears his throat and says, "Well, maybe I'm not entirely straight. Maybe."

Now they are getting somewhere. Mrs. Hudson steps around Sherlock who has been caught completely unawares for once. She looks absently at her watch. "Oh, my. Would you look at the time? I was supposed to be at Mrs. Turner's ages ago. Be dears and lock up for me." With that, she leaves two very gobsmacked men behind. They can take things from here.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and John stood, looking at one another, in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Two huge 'maybes' hung in the air between them, but that was fine because the two maybes collided and transformed into a single emphatic 'yes'. The collision resounded loudly in the small room and jolted the two men into action. An insane tangle of tongues and teeth ensued. It was only when John pulled back for air that either one of them spoke.

"Jesus, Sherlock. My God!" John was panting and clinging to Sherlock tightly. Eagerly, Sherlock went in search of John's lips once again. John dodged and huffed out a laugh. "Breathing," he explained.

"Breathing's boring," Sherlock complained as he nuzzled into John's neck

John huffed a laugh and turned them both where they were stood. He pulled away, still holding Sherlock's hand and backing one step towards the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"John," Sherlock whinged as he tugged on John's hand to no avail.

John gave a sharp tug and Sherlock lurched towards him. "We are not doing this here," John informed him, "not in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen."

Bending his knees so that he was on a level with John, Sherlock cajoled, "She'll be gone for hours, John, and she wouldn't mind."

"Well, I would," John stated emphatically. "She reminds me too much of my mum. Besides, she'd probably have a heart attack if she walked in on us."

That was greeted with a snort then, "She'd only have a heart attack from excitement. Mrs. Hudson would be likely to sneak a photo with her mobile."

"She doesn't have a mobile," John countered.

"Hence, the heart attack," Sherlock stated smugly. Somehow, during their bantering, John had led Sherlock up the stairs and into their own flat. They were still holding hands. Sherlock stepped close and stole another brief kiss. "You underestimate her, John. She was a stripper and had a quite interesting youth. Ask her to tell you about it, sometime."

In a very matter of fact tone, but with a pained expression, John said, "Could we please stop talking about Mrs. Hudson? If we don't, my libido is likely to pack up and leave for the duration."

"Oh, we can't have that, Captain Watson," Sherlock purred. He stepped back and began unbuttonig his shirt. It was an almost translucent white and so tight that the buttons almost sighed with relief as they were slid free. He shifted his hips suggestively and dipped his head to look up at John through his dark lashes. Sherlock's movements were smooth, seductive and almost, no, definitely practiced.

John snorted, then laughed out, "You git!" Sherlock grinned and slid the unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders. "She taught you that," Johm accused.

Sherlock veritably slunk back towards John, wearing a slow smoulder on his face. He leaned in close to John's ear and whispered, "It was for a case," then he nipped at John's earlobe playfully.

If John had let himself have expectations as to what Sherlock would be like when it came to sex, he would have expected shyness, inexperience and seriousness, heat and passion and maybe a small dose of angst. This self-assured, light hearted and playful Sherlock would never have entered his imaginings. John liked it very much.

The doctor raised his hands and slid them up the sides of Sherlock's bare chest then, in a move that Sherlock failed to predict, he started tickling. Sherlock tried to pull away, but John followed. He tickled him the short distance to the sofa, then pushed him down onto it. Sherlock curled into a ball, giggling breathlessly. "John, stop," he managed between bouts of giggling. This only drove John to an increased frenzy of tickling and Sherlock shouted, "Please, John!"

"Hmm? What was that?"

Uncurling enough to shoot John an unconvincing glare, he gasped out, "I said please!"

"Not good enough!"

"Mercy," cried Mr. I'veNeverBeggedForAnythingInMyLife.

Looking very amused and far too pleased with himself, John relented. He watched Sherlock whose chest heaved as his laughter slowly ebbed. When Sherlock uncurled fully and stretched his long body over the length of the sofa, John's amusement fled in favour of something more heated. Abruptly, John's jeans felt far too tight as did his chest. He fought to get enough air to speak. "Sherlock, tell me what you want."

Sherlock bit his lip and a brief flash of worry appeared on his face. No sooner had John seen it, it had gone. In its place was a slow assured smile that contained more than a bit of wickedness. "I want you, John Watson, to propperly bugger me until I scream."

That word, spoken by that man, using that voice was enough to make John unbearably desperate. "Yes," he breathed, "I think I can work with that." When he lifted Sherlock bodily from the sofa in his strong arms and proceeded to carry him towards his bedroom, Sherlock gave a squeal. Well, it would have been a squeal if Sherlock's voice hadn't been so rich and low and needy.

"Put me down," Sherlock ordered as they entered his bedroom and John did. He dropped him gracelessly onto the bed which rattled and squeaked under the impact. Sherlock went up onto his knees and reached for John who had started undressing. "Let me," Sherlock urged. He made quick work of John's belt and flies and tugged his jeans and pants downwards. John removed his shirt and toed his shoes, socks and remaining clothes off then climbed onto the bed to hover over Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes flickered over John. There was the scar, just as he had deduced, and muscles. So many gorgeous muscles. It was such a shame that John hid them under all those hideous jumpers. Then again, perhaps not. Sherlock didn't want to share this side of John with anyone. He gasped. John had unfastened his trousers and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock. It felt good, but, "I've been waiting for this too long, John. If you d... don't let go, the remainder of this endeavour will become pointless, for my part, at least."

John laughed, he could relate. "I suppose we should proceed to other activities, then," he said cheekily. He tapped Sherlock's hips and he raised them so John could slip off his trousers and pants. The detective's socks and shoes were already missing and John wondered, briefly, when that had happened. No matter. While he had dropped Sherlock's clothes on the floor, his lover (!!!) had rolled over and gone to all fours. Somehow, the little tail waggle that Sherlock did whilst looking over his shoulder actually made the position seem less ridiculous than it could have.

"Oi, you!" John grinned and slid his hands over the smooth, pale flesh of Sherlock's arse. "Aren't you the eager one?"

"As if you're not," Sherlock huffed. Really, there was no arguing at that point.

Suddenly, John froze, then proceeded to utter a stream of obscenities that would have made his old army mates blush. He finally wound down to a "No fucking condoms and no bloody lube!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though John couldn't see it from his current position. "Honestly, John. You could ask." He lifted one hand to point to the bedside table. "Top drawer."

John gaped, but decided he didn't want to know. Obviously, he had missed some things, but since they had ended up here, it really didn't matter. He retrieved both condom and lube and set to work preparing Sherlock to be penetrated. As he worked Sherlock with the fingers of his right hand, he used his teeth to rip open the condom pack. In a move that he was rather proud of, he rolled the condom on with one hand. Sherlock was moaning and shifting beneath him and a "Get on with it" slipped inpatiently from Sherlock's lips.

It took an appallingly short amount of time for John to reach the precipice once he had slid home in Sherlock's willing and supple arse, which Sherlock quickly deduced. That was fine, because Sherlock, himself, was on a hair trigger. He ordered, "Touch me, John." When he felt the firm grip of fingers around his cock, Sherlock cried out. His muscles tensed and his hole clenched around John's length. So suddenly powerful was his climax, that he missed the moment John joined him in the free fall of orgasm. The instant he realised that, he vowed that it would never happen again. He wanted that memory stored away in his Mind Palace. Sherlock's limbs gave way beneath him and he collapsed to the bed. The weight of John on top of him felt good and right.

Sherlock felt a primal satisfaction from the tip of his head all the way down to the ends of his toes. He spoke, his words lazy and slurred, "Thank goodness for busybodies."

John heartily concurred.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.


End file.
